


You're Missing The Parade

by ViolenceNewsNetwork



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Championship, Gen, Hades Tigers - Freeform, Season 8, Sixth Circle Stadium, postseason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolenceNewsNetwork/pseuds/ViolenceNewsNetwork
Summary: Post-Season Championships, Season 8. The Hades Tigers have just lost the finals to the Baltimore Crabs. Here's a story about being kind to yourself.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	You're Missing The Parade

10 PM. The bleachers, Sixth Circle Stadium. Season 8 is over. The lights are already out, the trash left by the uncountable number of the dead that the Tigers call fans already incinerated by the stadium imps. Somewhere, out in Tartarus, the runner-up Stripes are getting blitzed with the stragglers and party animals from the rest of the league who are in town one more night to celebrate another thrilling season. Richmond Harrison is eating an entire industrial container of boba balls in water he found in a back room. No one stops him.

One Stripe sits alone in seat G-36. No point in leaving; she lives here anyways. Hiroto Wilcox stares up at the familiar miasma of soul energy that blankets the upward abyss. There is no day or night down here, nor any way to see the sky, but it’s a quiet night under lonely stars regardless.

“You still here?” comes a familiar voice from behind her. Older. A little rough. “I knew you weren’t much of a party person, but y’know. Find your fun where you can make it.”

The seat creaks as Randy awkwardly lowers himself into it. He’s a professional athlete, sure, but he’s a big guy, and these bleachers are purely for show, since the bulk of Tigers fans are incorporeal spirits. “Nice night, at least.”

Wilcox slumps into herself. Her broad shoulders sink inwards, like she ripped each pitch out of them by sheer force of will. “I blew it.”

“The Crabs are the best team in Blaseball. They have been for a long time. You threw an incredible game.”

“Sure.” Hiroto leans backwards over the back of the chair.

“The fact we even got one over on them in the beginning should be reason to celebrate!” Randy offers, maybe a little more chirpily than he intends.

“We got one over on them because you dragged Famous’s drunk behind into a cold shower at 6 AM today and made them drill change-ups until the rest of us got here.” Her eyes drift absently to the ad for Violent Lightning beside the scoreboard. She hopes, secretly, that if Landry’s looking down on them from whatever comes after all this, he’s looking somewhere else right now. “Y’know, I’d be worried about that kid if I had any reason to believe they conformed to human-like biology.”

Randy chuckles, and Hiroto can’t help but think he’ll make an excellent Mall Santa in a few years. “Just smoothing things over for you,” he says. 

The moment falls silent. The two sit, watching the Soul Miasma glow in spurts and starts; someone’s gotten their hands on some fireworks, and the way they shine, muted through the endless dead, is strangely beautiful. But it’s meant for another, more celebratory moment.

“See, it’s stuff like that,” Hiroto grumbles. “You shake Famous back in line. You help Richmond with his contract. Hell, you and Dan brought in cookies last Tuesday!”

Randy grins to himself. “I can’t take credit for that one. I married a sweetheart, what can I say?”

“Exactly.” Hiroto snaps. “You got your life together. I’m just hanging on.” She presses her tired knuckles to her temple. “I got no place leading this team.”

“Stop.”

“What?”

Randy looks… older, suddenly. Slower. Like he’s been carrying around a two-ton weight that Hiroto can only now see. “Don’t beat yourself up like that. You put your heart on the line out there tonight. And that hurts, I know. But we’ve both been Stripes since day one, and I know that’s how you play every game. Me, I love this splort, but I got my kids and Dan, and if we’d pulled it off tonight, I don’t even know _what_ I’d be. I barely even know how I got drafted to this team. But you?” Randy puts a hand on her shoulder. “You live and die with this team. Every game, every pitch. You never, ever give up.” He offers a hopeful smile. “That’s what we need in a captain.”

They don’t say anything for a long time.

In the distance, the fireworks are petering out.

“You know, I heard a fan say that for a team whose motto is, ‘Never Look Back,’ we spend an awful lot of time in the past,” Hiroto says, with the faintest smile.

Randy laughs. “Who needs to look back? I’m too busy being terrified of the future.”

Hiroto snorts. It’s a grim joke in a strange moment, but she can’t help it.

Randy extricates himself from the creaking chair. “I’m going to go hunt down the others, give ‘em all a high five before I head back to Memphis. Think they were going to ‘Big Al’s Spirits ’n’ Spirits’. Maybe. Spears was getting kinda goofy and I dunno if I heard him right.” He offers her a hand up. “You interested?”

Hiroto shakes her head. “Yeah, but, like, in a minute. I’ll catch up.”

“Suit yourself. I’ve got a high five with your name on it!” Randy wiggles his fingers, sauntering towards the exit.

Hiroto laughs. “You’re such a dad, Jesus.”

When he’s gone, Hiroto pulls out a worn notebook, the inside covered in warm-ups, research, training records. She flips to a fresh page page and starts a list.

MONDAY 

  * 6 AM - Drag Famous’s sorry butt out of bed.




End file.
